


Guilt and (Promised) Reparations

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Exhaustion, F/M, Fluff, Guilt, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Erik spends all day at his music and it is only when he is too exhausted to go on that he remembers he has a wife.





	

His eyes are drooping when he decides to abandon his music for the night. He smoothes his fingers over the organ keys in a soft farewell and stretches, easing some of the stiffness from his back muscles before he stands. His legs are shaky under him, weak, and it takes him a moment to find his footing. How long has he been playing? Since sometime after breakfast, he thinks. There is a vague recollection of Christine, urging him to eat and stretch himself, and he brushed her off, promised later. Later. If the chill that permeates the room, seeps into his blood is anything to go by, it _is_ later, and has been for some time.

The parlour is Christine-less, undoubtedly so. A nauseating wave of guilt washes over him. He has neglected her, forgotten her in his own rush of composition. They were to go for a walk this evening, and distracted as he was in his music it slipped his mind. How terrible he has been to her! Disappointing her so! He will have to make it up to her somehow, atone for his sins. How best to do it? Music? Books? Dresses? Wine? Flow-?

A yawn erupts from him, disrupting his thoughts and reminding him of how truly tired he is. His atonement must wait until morning. She would only get upset if he went about a project tonight and wore himself out. It would not do to upset her any more.

Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his face. His very skin is stiff, demanding rest and as he slips from the room he cuts the gas light off. It would be careless of him to waste it, and besides he is well used to finding his way in the darkness. 

Christine, of course, has not cut the light in their bedroom. The soft glow guides him like a beacon, and he eases the door closed behind him. He can see her shape, curled beneath the blankets, her golden hair fanned across the pillow, and the very sight of it stirs his heart. His poor, dear Christine. She deserves so much better than him. The thought tightens his throat, tears prickling his eyes. She does not deserve someone like him. She should have the finest of everything, and a husband that dotes on her. And he _does_ dote on her, truly he does, but it is cruel of him to forget her, to become so wrapped in his own affairs, and she deserves someone who would not disappoint her so.

It would be wrong to disturb her sleep now. He should return to the parlour, make a bed for himself on the couch, and leave her in peace. But the allure of her is too strong and before he knows it he has toed-off his shoes, and socks, and unbuttoned his trousers. His jacket he hangs on the back of the chair, adds his waistcoat and sets his pocket watch on the bedside locker, the chain a little pool of gold. Twisting carefully he unclips his braces, slides them off and adds them to the waistcoat and jacket. Then, he cuts the gas light here too, and slips into bed beside his Christine.

The bed is warm from her, and he curls onto his side, gently drawing her towards him. She whimpers, low in her throat at his touch, but does not stir only to nuzzle into his chest, whimpering again as he presses a soft kiss to her forehead. Those delicate little whimpers that could sustain him forever! How he loves them, lives for them, cradles each one close, and he elicits another sweet little one from her throat when he strokes her hair, nuzzles into her curls. He curls himself tighter around her, to protect her from the night, to soothe the aching in his chest. She is a treasure, truly, his little Christine, far too good for him.

Sighing, his eyes slip closed as he kisses her hair one last time. Tomorrow he will make it up to her. Tomorrow he will do better. Tomorrow...

"Tomorrow," he breathes, breaths slowing to match hers, and it is his last thought before the rolling wave of sleep bears him away too.


End file.
